“Well, it’ll take money to get him,” snapped back the Second Deputy, remembering that he had a nest of his own to feather.
“It will be worth what it costs,” admitted the Commissioner.
“Of course,” said Copeland, “they’ll have to honor your drafts—in reason.”
“There will be no difficulty on the expense side,” quietly interposed the Commissioner. “The city wants Binhart. The whole country wants Binhart. And they will be willing to pay for it.”
Blake rose heavily to his feet. His massive bulk was momentarily stirred by the prospect of the task before him. For one brief moment the anticipation of that clamor of approval which would soon be his stirred his lethargic pulse. Then his cynic calmness again came back to him.
“Then what’re we beefing about?” he demanded. “You want Binhart and I’ll get him for you.”
The Commissioner, tapping the top of his desk with his gold-banded fountain pen, smiled. It was almost a smile of indulgence.
“You know you will get him?” he inquired.
The inquiry seemed to anger Blake. He was still dimly conscious of the operation of forces which he could not fathom. There were things, vague and insubstantial, which he could not understand. But he nursed to his heavy-breathing bosom the consciousness that he himself was not without his own undivulged powers, his own private tricks, his own inner reserves.
“I say I’ll get him!” he calmly proclaimed. “And I guess that ought to be enough!”